February 104:30 p.m.

Gloomy. But how freshly Jalapa sparkled when first I
arrived! The mountain haze persists, however. A shroud.
Dour. And such a clean city, immaculate, reminding me
somewhat of Queretaro, my favorite. I was even pondering in
the beginning a way to travel to Jalapa more often, a way to
stay here one month out of the year. The warm colonial
atmosphere stirred these dayvisions. The impressive parks.
Large. Wooded. But the skies. Skies of lead. Heavy.
Leaden. They weigh me down. Dampen me. They dull my
purpose, my vigor. Such it was that drove me to the
southwest United States, to the sun, that bright sun, its
clear sheer bouyance. I worship the sun.

A bird died as I was taking my lunch today. I'm not sure
what species the bird was. I'm not sure, for that matter,
what species my lunch was. I typically pick something from
the menu I've not heard of. Today this something appeared to
be a kind of pork cutlet in a kind of red sauce. Something
"adobada," I think, if I recall the word correctly. I did
the same yesterday in that restaurant below my hotel window.
I ended up there with milanesa. I couldn't remember what
milanesa was. Had I remembered what milanesa was I would not
have ordered it. I still can't tell you what milanesa is. A
meat of unsavory texture, I'll say. Right now I sit before a
delicious café con leche in the same out-of-the-way Jalapa
cafe as two days ago, on Zaragosa. The abovementioned lunch
was ingested at that El Buscador restaurant in the middle of
that far-removed rain forest. I spent several hours today
again at the foot of that powerful waterfall below that
restaurant in a second study of that holy scene. The bird
died in a cage hanging near me as I lunched afterward. I was
actually chewing when it died. I actually saw it fall from
its perch. It made no sound. There was no drama. It just
fell, like some ill-set figurine. Ominous, it seemed. I
glanced to the round-faced waiter. He noticed my misgiven
look. The popular Ranchero tune was playing. The one from
the bus ride to Jalapa from Veracruz. The one I heard in
this very Jalapa cafe two days ago. El Buscador had exactly
eleven birds hanging in small cages at the western perimeter
of its canopied dining area. They were each very colorful
and, presumably, indigenous to that forest. Now it has
exactly ten birds hanging in small cages at the western
perimeter of its canopied dining area. The waiter came
reverently to inspect the birdless perch. I asked for fried
bananas in cream and a coffee for dessert. He nodded. He
left with my order. A moment later I heard him tell someone
out of sight that a bird had died. He mentioned the bird by
species, not by name. "Se murió el something," he informed.
Then, for the first time, I saw the cook. He appeared from
around a soda refrigerator in a clean apron. Reverently he
came to the birdcage. Then the cook peered at me. Square-
faced, he was, unkempt in his elder-age, with a thick
mustache. He seemed angry, accusing. But it wasn't my
fault. The cook strode away rigidly. The waiter blinked at
me warily. Warily, he blinked at me, with suspicion. But it
really wasn't my fault. I was lunching as inoffensively as I
sit here in this Jalapa cafe sipping this delicious café con
leche when that bird died. Maybe it was ominous to them,
too. A portent. In any event, the waiter brought to me then
my fried bananas in cream with coffee. And I thought about
how the notes I had just taken at the falls were effective.
I think now, in fact, those notes are even pungent. I think,
too, I should probably have Domingo visit these Veracruz
waterfalls instead of those of the Puebla highlands. I'm
very satisfied with the notes I took today. And this plot
change obviously improves. But it is never encouraging to
watch an animal die as you eat your lunch.

When you do not belong people look at you. This is not a
phenomenon particular to Mexico. But if you go to Mexico as a
fair-haired American you will experience it. In the United
States the ethnic mix is diverse enough that to encounter
evidence of any given nationality in any given locale is not
that surprising. In Mexico this is not the case. Largely a
homogenous population, the predominant ethnicity is
"meztizo," or, a "mixture" of Spanish and indigenous blood.
A tawny complexion, this means, and undiluted blackness of
the hair. When you do not fit this description you will be
reminded that you do not fit this description. Walking along
any street you will feel the eyes of those around you fall on
you. For an instant, they fall. And then for an instant
more. They do not intentionally seek you, these eyes. But
you are different. So naturally they note you and then hold.
An object of idle curiosity, you become. A passing novelty.
A break in a circle. A blemish on a wall. It can feel
hostile at times. For scrutinized, you feel, examined. And
you are always watching indifferent even laggard looks
sharpen suddenly at your appearance, at you. So, exposed,
you are. Singled out. Sometimes to the point of violation.
It takes a good month to wear in a desensitization to this
habit of the homogenous. But then there come the young
people--a circle of whispering girls, maybe, or three boys.
"Hey, güero," they tease. And it's harder to ignore this.
Just the other day when I sought to find my way back by foot
to the Jalapa centro from that outlying bus stop, I
experienced this. As I tramped through a close old
neighborhood, someone, from some one of the many windows
crowded up against the empty lane, whistled to me. With
effort, I did not look up. Then they crooned to me ghostily:
"güüeeero." Still, I did not look about. Always I feign
deafness or ignorance through such episodes. For while I
understand being noticed is natural, even inevitable, that
does not mean I have to offer myself as the butt of their
jokes. And if you can convincingly "not hear" these heckles,
then it is the heckler who is made the fool by them.

Another aspect of this conspicuousness is how it affects
encounters with the opposite sex. For women it would still
be a liability, I suppose, since Mexican men can be forward
and seem only to become moreso before a conspicuous gringa.
For men though it is a great boon. Mexican girls are
notoriously reserved and one's foreignness can help draw them
out. I once had three young women invite themselves to sit
down with me on a bench in a Nuevo Laredo plaza. They
chatted me up and then invited me to share with them a pizza.
I was horribly poor, and, prevising the awkwardness my
poverty would create, I simply declined. I did not command
enough Spanish even to invent a gallant excuse. They were
offended. They would not have made such an offer to a young
Mexican male sitting alone. I met another young woman, too,
for this reason--at a discotheque, in Guadalajara. Dating a
foreigner, she explained, frees a Mexican woman of all the
posturing and obligation that even a hint of a flirtation
with a Mexican man can involve. Lety told me this quite
candidly. Lety and I engaged in a light romance for a good
six weeks then. She was a folkloric dancer. The big
colorful dresses and all, the stomping steps, sombreros. I
sat on her parent's front porch for ninety minutes every
night and fielded stories about performing, about day-trips
with the dance troupe into the hinterland of Jalisco state,
about festivals. I learned a lot of Spanish from Lety. And
I've never kissed a woman before or since who was so fiery a
kisser. Then I left that city.

The women of Guadalajara are extraordinarily beautiful.
This will no doubt be mentioned later. "Tapatias" the
Mexicans call them. Deborah is probably my last chance at an
American girl. If she does not meet me in Albuquerque in
July, if nothing happens with her, I will probably move to
Guadalajara after finishing my unfinished novel. There I will
marry one of these "Tapatias."

Tomorrow I continue on to Puebla. I will be in Puebla
only one full day. This means I have one traveling day to
get into Puebla. One day of work. And then one traveling day
to get out of Puebla. Feels like a vacation. Sedulously I've
applied myself since crossing the border. And I face a
mountain of work in Mexico City. So I'm looking forward to
this short break. I'll tour a small neighborhood in Puebla.
That's all. That one around the old Santa Monica convent, I
think. Right now though I will quit this cafe and forage
some tortillas and tequila and sangrita and lime. I'm
betting alcohol will help me sleep through the street revels,
through those marimbas outside my hotel window. And I'm
ahead enough in my budget to afford it.